Memento
by XsnapesgirlX
Summary: A recount of Cuddy's last few hours since House was shot. not actually mine but my mates too chicken to stick this on her own account. please review thx xxx


-1**Memento**

She'd look back on those few desperate hours later and find that a lot of it was a blur of emotion and adrenalin, and she'd only catch snippets of clear recollection.

She remembers hearing the gunshots. She believes now that the whole hospital must have heard them, it wasn't possible not to. She remembers them because of the shock they were to her system, and because, up until that point, it had been an ordinary day. She had been doing paperwork and had been ready to gear herself up and go hassle him to make up his clinic hours.

She thinks she'd gladly spare him a year of clinic if it meant changing the events of the day. It's a stupid, random thought because such a thing wouldn't make a blind bit of difference, but she wants to be in control again.

He's always told her that the way she micromanages everything within the hospital is rather frightening. She's always told him that, believe it or not, it wont run itself; because she _is_ afraid of making mistakes. Despite everything, she knows it still wasn't good enough the second a man with a gun waltzed into her hospital.

She remembers striding through the halls, almost running, her heart pounding in her ears. Incoherent shouts, barked orders. In the back of her mind her imagination ran into overdrive, making paranoid connections with him. Partly because he is frequently on her mind, and partly because she has always thought someday someone would kill him…if she didn't do it first.

The plastic coolness of the phone she pressed to her ear, speaking quickly and urgently; _she needs to speak to the head of security._

She'd know that her stomach twisted into a knot the moment it was confirmed by an authority figure; that, indeed, there had been a shooting , someone had been shot, in _her _hospital (because up until now, part of her has been in denial). But that feeling was soon drowned out when her heart leapt into her throat rendering her incapable of breathing when she heard the words '_Dr House' _and '_shot twice' _in the same sentence. And, even though she couldn't, and can't, hear her own voice, or that of the persons on the other end of the line, there were a few necessities muttered: _Police have been called? Shooter in custody? Patients calmed? No one else hurt? _

Hanging up, she remembers the world was spinning and almost all sound was cut off by a rushing in her ears. Yet she heard the running footsteps and turned to meet them. In her minds eye, she sees her first glimpse of Wilson again; wide eyes mirroring the panic that is threatening to overwhelm her.

Too much emotion; hands gripped each others forearms, an attempt at maintaining strength and rationality. The simultaneous ringing of their pagers echoes still in her mind…

_Surgery prep, room 3._

And then, tripping over themselves to run to him, she had to be 'Dr Cuddy, Dean of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital', and she had to be as controlled and rational and clear-thinking as possible for Dr House's sake. She had to do and be her job. Because the alternative was being 'Lisa, out of her mind with fear for Greg and a hundred other emotions threatening to break her'; and that was useless.

She'd think that the moment she saw him, all her years as, and training to be, a doctor, all the years making her hardened and unaffected by the anatomy of the human body, were of no use in ignoring the blood. Oh, the blood! So much of it the immediate thought that he'd lost too much to make it stands clearly still. The amount and the…smell. Then, warm on her hands as she inspected the bullet wounds herself; the one responsible for the wound on his abdomen was still there. She sees flashes of the mangled flesh now, just as she sees flashes of his leg from time to time. She wants, and wanted, to be sick and _then_ she fought the nausea down. Now, however…

He was unconscious, face peaceful and free of worry. Thinking about the image of him she feels a sense of irony. The phrase 'dead to the world' floated horribly in her mind but she banished it away abruptly.

She absorbed the plethora of voices delivering important information, but apart from the main points of the damage sustained, which she now knows off by heart, she cannot recall much until Cameron said the magic word: _ketamine. _And with a jolt off shock, apprehension and a, then, indescribable emotion, she knew what he had contemplated in those last few minutes of consciousness. The possibility…

And suddenly some emotions distinguished themselves more clearly through the haze:

Fear, _a dose of ketamine that size is dangerous …_

Doubt, _a brain reboot…_

Hope, _trials had over 50 percent success rate…_

Trust, _she'd told him she trusted him, he needed her to do so now. He was placing his own trust in her…_

And then time was no longer a constant construct to her.

She is sure, at the time, his surgery felt like it was drawn out over an eternity, but now she cannot remember the wait. It feels as if she spent the phase asleep; sleep never allows for perception of time. She wasn't tiring yet, however she was sure that adrenaline was the only thing keeping her standing; preventing her legs from simply giving way beneath her. But she knows she kept vigil from the observation room above with a horrible sense of déjà vu. Wilson and Cameron's presence seemed to linger, not quite ignored, but not quite acknowledged.

Then, she'd say, the next fragment of recollection is relief; overwhelming relief that she reigns in, unwilling to surrender to emotion just yet, as she was told _his condition is stable_. Then looking down at him in recovery, with Wilson, yet again, at her side. The exchange of brief, unmemorable words, and she still managed to remain stoic, unrevealing. She remembers thinking that Wilson was worried about her unresponsiveness but did not press it, for which she was, and is, grateful. But he did not refrain from pulling her into a brief, comforting hug, before futilely patting House on the shoulder and departing.

And because there was no one else around then, and because she knew Wilson's gesture was more for himself than for House, as House couldn't feel it anyway, she deemed it safe to momentarily slip her hand into House's, squeezing his rough, callused fingers, and dipped down to brush a light kiss on his forehead. And she knew she had to get away.

She walked, not ran, to her office so as not to draw attention, but the metaphorical dam inside her keeping her emotions at bay was cracking and straining; too many having been repressed for too long. It pains her and brings tears to her eyes even now because, unfortunately, she remembers it with absolute clarity. The fact is that strong emotion burns itself into the long term memory, searing and scarring; whether the memory is wanted or not is both subjective and irrelevant.

Strode into her office, locking the door behind her without turning on the lights.

Her breathing became erratic, heart rate elevated, her pulse throbbed in her head.

Shrouded in darkness Lisa Cuddy finally broke.

The events of the day, and her attempts to stem her own reactions, seemed to, all of a sudden, suck the life out of her and she could only manoeuvre herself so that she fell onto the couch and a sob escaped her. She had made sure that that was the only one and henceforth wept in silence, her body spasmed from repressing the sound; so many feelings in so little time. Feelings that had been delayed and that she should've allowed herself to experience hours ago.

Fear for House's life, for the safety of her patients. Guilt, because he'd told her she had a perverse guilt complex and it couldn't not come into play; it was her fault, she should've done better, it shouldn't have happened. Anger, with herself, with House, and she didn't like to think about what she would end up doing to the shooter if she was ever alone in a room with him. Disbelief, a part of her still couldn't believe it had happened, the day still carried a surreal quality to it. Devastation…the things his body had undergone…And the tears multiplied with the realisation that half of the things he'd done to himself.

Every time it happened, she promised herself that she'd never again cry over Gregory House. Not this time. She makes no such promises; maybe because her experience tells her it would be pointless. She'd wonder why for a long time before the answer will come in a revelation, but, for now, it is merely a sign that things are changing.

Now it is a thought to, for the third time in as many hours, cast away to the back of her tired, emotionally-wrought mind and to, instead, idly wonder how quickly she can get the floor of his office re-carpeted. Because, sitting in his chair in the darkened room, no matter how she tries to avert her eyes, her gaze is repeatedly drawn back to the patch of dark red near the whiteboard. She knows it's irrational, but it seems to get bigger each time. She knows it doesn't take Freud to figure out what those imaginings might mean.

She thinks she'll settle on blaming the moon. There is no source of light other than the moon beams filtering through the blinds, making it possible to see the blood stain. She feels drained, and she should want to sleep, but she is twitchy, as if there is something she needs to do. She is playing with his novelty sized tennis ball and looks down at it, thinking how much bigger it is in her hands than in his.

She shivers, without knowing exactly why, but puts it down to coldness. And because one of his jackets is draped over the back of the chair, and she reasons it could be fulfilling it's purpose, she puts it on. It is laughably big on her, but oversized clothes seem to be an almost universal comfort. Especially, she thinks whilst hugging herself, when they smell of…oh, damn, when they smell of House. She inhales; today isn't a smoke day, when he's been smoking cigars at home, and she's grateful. What vices did he _not_ indulge in? Nor is it a leather day when he's ridden his bike into work and worn his jacket for too long, but she doesn't mind those days. But it's a silly, insignificant reason to be sad when she realises it's a _nice _day, and she designates them 'nice' days when he smells sort of spicy and sort of toasty. Now, she thinks, he probably smells of sweat and blood, and her eyes are drawn back to the blood on the carpet. _Full circle_, she muses.

Then she's on her feet and out the door to do the thing that she's been putting off, that's preventing her from feeling like curling up on the couch in her office for a few hours. Her feet direct themselves so she doesn't have to think all that much, therefore she doesn't really consider the fact that she's still wearing his jacket and that there are people on night shift to see her in it.

Standing beside House's hospital bed, the soft night lights make him _look _softer and worry free. Obviously, she knows better. She sighs as she thinks, _great, a bullet is exactly what his personality needs. _But will this change him? A lot of the answer to that question depends greatly on the outcome of the Ketamine treatment. Truthfully, if anything, she wants him to wake up exactly the same, except for the pain to be gone. She doesn't know how long she stands at his bedside, but at some point she draws up a chair and grasps his right hand in hers. Glancing at the clock, it reads 3:05am and she sighs again. Something she does a lot when she gets tired.

And then, an indeterminable amount of time later, she feels his thumb twitch against her palm and a growling noise that seems to start in his stomach and work its way up. Her head snaps up to look at him and she gasps happily when she is met with his well missed icy blue, albeit glazed, eyes, struggling to focus on her.

" Mmmmm, no hhhand…hand-cuufs?"

" What?" It comes out automatically as her brain ponders the possibilities of his morphine-induced dreams, but she shakes it off,

" Hi…"

" Hi." A pause, " You got shot."

" Jus…flesh wound…" he chuckles slightly, but then stops and the hint of a frown appears.

" Are you in much pain?"

" High…"

" Yes, hello." she rolls her eyes but is still smiling.

" Nnah…drugs…" he grins sleepily and she bites back a giggle. " Baby."

" Excuse me?" She doesn't appreciate the turn in conversation, if it can be called that, whilst she is exhausted and he is high, it seems dangerous territory. However, she takes comfort in the fact that he probably won't remember any of it.

" You…preggers?" She _thinks_ it has been made into a question and wonders what he's getting at. She smiles sadly,

" No, remember?"

He just blows out air in a sort-of sigh. He mumbles quietly but she manages to catch it,

" I could…I-I would…want…" Her stomach clenches but she wont allow herself to assume anything or allow his disorientated ramblings raise her hopes. They could've meant anything despite the topic they were touching on. She thinks he has fallen asleep again, but then there is another flash of blue as his eyes twitch open looking straight at her,

" K-Keta…mine?"

She looks at him, " Yes, House, I gave you the Ketamine."

He smiles then, so she allows herself to do the same.

" Cuddy…" she likes it when he says her name and it isn't sarcastic or contemptuous, " Thank you…" and she likes it even more when he says that and means it. He squeezes her hand for emphasis and this time he really does slip into unconsciousness again, whispering, " Lisa…" so quietly she's not even sure she heard it.

His head is slumped towards her and she can't not look at him. She lets out a breathy laugh because she's forgotten that his nostrils flare when he sleeps. She suddenly feels such an unexpected rush of gratitude her head starts swimming, and, while she finds it absurd, her eyes are stinging merely from watching his chest rise and fall. He is alive, and still in her life, and, thinking of the few words they have just exchanged, she thinks it means more than she had previously believed. It's probably because he's been there forever, but she doesn't want to reduce this thing she's feeling to the cliché of 'you don't know what you've got until it's gone' or 'almost gone' as the case may be. She's sure it's more complex than that.

Still, she thinks she should take the time to reconsider what she has before thinking about what she wants.

And, right now, she realises there isn't anywhere else she'd rather be. And that she has the time.


End file.
